


if you talk with your hands (then we can negotiate)

by clairelutra (exosolarmoon)



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Fakeout Makeout, Trapped In A Closet, i've lost count, if anyone here is familiar with that term, if anyone knows the tag for this i'd appreciate it a lot ;;;, kissing as misdirection?, okay so how many trapped in a closet fics does that make now?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 10:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exosolarmoon/pseuds/clairelutra
Summary: “And, no matter what,don’t open your eyes.”‘No matter what’ was a highly worrying phrase, and Chat opened his mouth to point this out—“Tikki, spots off.”—only to have any and all words he might have spoken crash together like a ten-car pileup in the back of his throat.“L-Ladybug?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> m-me? have a thing for the 'trapped in a closet' trope? *loosens collar* n-nooo... 
> 
> (i actually really like this one shhhh)

_“Shit.”_

As much as Chat tried to censor his language ( _children_ looked up to him and you never knew when you were being filmed), the fact that the entire situation could be summed up in that one word was probably enough to give him a free pass this time, he thought.

Ladybug, equally aware of their possible listeners, swatted his arm half-heartedly. “I’m _thinking_.”

The storm of footfalls, the ones whipped into a frenzy of rage against their local heroes by the akuma of the day, approached at worrying speed.

“Yeah, great,” said Chat, distracted as he scanned the area for a good place to hide. “Maybe you could do that in this… Aha!” He yanked open a side door to reveal a: “Storage closet.”

Ladybug blinked at it for a second, during which something was shattered very loudly upstairs, then said, “Oh, okay,” and dove in, dragging him in with her.

With a deliberately muffled _snap_ of the door latch, the two of them were suitably hidden from the world (at least for the moment), and so together Ladybug and Chat Noir hunkered down to think.

“I mean,” said Ladybug, tapping her chin in the low light slipping in from under the door. “We just need them to not notice us until they move on, right?”

Chat, sorting through the supplies that would help him barricade the door, said, “Right.”

“But we’re _really_ noticeable,” she continued as Chat plucked the strongest-looking mops off the wall and carried them over to the door. “What we need to do is… blend… in… Got it!”

Chat jumped — the exclamation echoing off the walls was accompanied by one strong hand seizing his wrist and the clatter of broom handles as Ladybug swept away his makeshift barrier. “What?”

Ladybug didn’t answer directly, just guided him into the corner where they’d be most visible should the door open. “Do you trust me?”

“Y-… Yes?”

The answer was, of course, a _resounding_ ’yes,’ but these were very worrying circumstances to hear that question under, so forgive him if he sounded a little less sure than he felt.

Ladybug put a hand on his shoulder and asked, “Do you have food for your kwami?”

 _That_ he had an actual answer to. “Yes.”

Ladybug took a deep, steadying breath, and, in the distance, they could hear the mob descend one more floor of the hotel.

“Then close your eyes—” Chat did so, seeing Ladybug do the same with his last second of vision. “—and release your transformation.” 

Chat swallowed, and Ladybug squeezed his shoulder.

“Plagg, claws in.”

A flash of green light, and then Ladybug took another breath and completed her instructions.

“And, no matter what, _don’t open your eyes_.”

‘No matter what’ was a highly worrying phrase, and Chat opened his mouth to point this out—

“Tikki, spots off.”

—only to have any and all words he might have spoken crash together like a ten-car pileup in the back of his throat. 

“L-Ladybug?”

“Don’t open your eyes,” she repeated, much, much closer than before. 

( _Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh—_ )

Her other hand clasped his shoulder (strong, bare hands scrunching up only two layers of fabric, oh _fuck him_ ), and she pushed him back against the wall.

This was all the warning he had before Ladybug grabbed his face and _kissed him senseless_.

The first drag of her lips felt like nothing, like any other brush of skin-to-skin contact, albeit on a rather sensitive area of his body. 

The second drag felt like sparks, like the set of a match against flint, the scent of her filling up every corner of his nose and lungs, sinking its hooks into his psyche and _pulling_.

The third drag was more of a stroke, and it felt like _electricity_ , her taste hitting his tongue and slipping down his throat and chasing through his veins, cataclysmic and intoxicating.

He was moaning by the fourth, clutching at her hips by the fifth, _burning_ by the sixth, and she just _kept kissing him_ , her bare nails scratching his bare nape and her hips knocking _mind-blowingly_ against his.

Groaning deep in his throat and scrambling to keep up, he barely noticed when someone wrenched the door open, snarling furiously — and that is, of course, when his frantic attempts to haul Ladybug ever closer rucked up her shirt enough for his fingers to meet with the bare, soft skin underneath, and his ability to pay attention to anything else died an ignoble death.

Ladybug gasped, hips twitching in his hands and all of her squirming closer, and Adrien was tangentially aware of the wall sliding up his back, of the intruder snorting a disgusted, “Fucking kids,” but mostly he was aware of Ladybug’s strong, bare hands slipping under the hem of his shirt and stroking his stomach, her touch burning hotter, _better_ than capsaicin.

Somewhere beyond the blood pounding in his ears and Ladybug’s sweet pants, the door snapped shut and the footsteps receded, and Adrien thought that that might have been important, but it was very, very, very hard to think right then.

The kiss fell into a heated rhythm, a slow, steady grind of cloth and flesh and muscle and skin that was slowly taking the rest of whatever was left of his mind and pulling it apart at the seams, wearing away at the edges of his sanity until there was nothing left but want and want and want and want.

By the time Ladybug pulled back, their lips parting with a slick sound that sent a shivershock rattling through his bones, he was gasping for oxygen that just didn’t seem to be there, propped up against the wall because he sure as hell didn’t trust his numb, tingling legs to support him, head swimming and body buzzing and lips begging for more.

“There,” said Ladybug, whisper-raw and throaty, and Adrien knew she could feel him shake over it. “That did it.”

‘That’ had done a lot of things, but Adrien wasn’t quite coherent enough yet to ask which she meant — he was barely _there_ enough to brace himself against the wall when she pulled away.

“There you go, Tikki,” she murmured as she fiddled around with her clothing, pulling something out of somewhere and straightening her shirt. “Doing okay, kitty?” 

He gasped a laugh, shaken to the core, and admitted, hands on knees, “I… I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on in my _life_.”

Eye still shut, he could feel Ladybug still for a second, then carry on with what she was doing. “Just from that?”

“‘Just,’ she says,” he echoed, stunned and still laughing, trying to ease the nigh unbearable pressure in his chest. “Don’t tell me you’ve got _more_ up your sleeve, my lady.”

“Well…” said his lady after a moment of deliberation. “I _didn’t.”_

The implication that she did _now_ came through loud and clear, and Adrien’s legs gave up on him outright, the wheeze of his next laugh turning into a strained whine.

Plagg headbutted his shoulder. Adrien dug the wheel of camembert out of his pocket with trembling hands and handed it off, leaving Plagg to deal with the packaging.

“Do tell,” he said when his mouth worked again, because suicide by sexual frustration seemed to be in his cards for today.

Ladybug must’ve sensed his motive, because all she said was, “…Maybe _after_ the akuma, chaton.”

“Is that a promise?” he said, too breathless and wanting ( _craving_ ) to make it anything other than a request.

She hummed, deliberately slow, and cupped his jaw, bare, warm skin on his ruthlessly controlled stubble. “Maybe if you’re very, very good. Think you can do that for me, minou?”

_Oh god._

Adrien’s throat made a vaguely affirmative sound for him, while he tried not to pass out.

The joke was on her: after a kiss like _that?_ After a _promise_ like that? Chat was probably going to be useless for the rest of the day.

(But _good god_ did he have incentive.)


End file.
